


The Way it Was Meant To Be

by whitchry9



Category: Sherlock (TV)
Genre: Breathing, Doctor!John, Drugs, Gen, Paternal!Lestrade, Pneumonia, Sick!Sherlock, Sickfic, antibiotics, h/c, oh breathing's boring, sick
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2012-11-13
Updated: 2012-11-13
Packaged: 2017-11-18 13:49:02
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 7,311
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/561731
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/whitchry9/pseuds/whitchry9
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>John goes away for just four days. He even makes meals for Sherlock and leaves them in the fridge in the hopes he's eat them. Except Sherlock manages to get an epic case of pneumonia.<br/>Thus, John must care for him, at home of course, and Sherlock is a terrible patient. Obviously.<br/>Written for the H/C bingo prompt pneumonia.</p>
            </blockquote>





	The Way it Was Meant To Be

John had only been away for four days. Four short days. He had made Sherlock meals (not that he would eat them, but they were there anyway and it made John feel better) and left them in the fridge, but not near the hands.  
He had left instructions for Mrs Hudson, begging her to check on him once a day to ensure that he hadn't stopped breathing because he decided it was boring or felt like doing an experiment with fire.  
He confiscated his gun and all of the possibly explosive chemicals.  
Everything should have been fine. Lestrade had promised to not ask him for help on a case, but would check on him. Everything should have been fine.  
And John thought it would be. Because after he arrived back home, the flat was still standing, Mrs Hudson didn't seem to be in shock, and there was not a couple dozen texts from various people insisting that John come home NOW.  
It looked promising.  
Even some of the meals were missing out of the fridge, which hopefully meant Sherlock had eaten them, but as John knew all too well, could have meant a number of different things.  
Except Sherlock didn't greet him, didn't berate him for taking off when he absolutely needed him, didn't continue the conversation exactly where they had left off when he had left, didn't even appear. But Mrs Hudson had said he was in, even though “he did look a bit peaky last I saw”. Which John hoped meant exhaustion, not illness, or worse, drugs.

But when John wandered into Sherlock's bedroom, after softly knocking and getting no response, he found it a mess, but empty. John gave up at this point and headed up to his bedroom.  
Which was where he found Sherlock, sleeping in his bed, looking, as Mrs Hudson so eloquently put it, “a bit peaky” and eyes glossy with fever.  
“Hey Sherlock.”  
He blinked.  
“Umm... what're you doing in my bed?”  
Sherlock glanced around, like he had only just realized where he was.  
“I was... I was... doing something.” He sounded confused. His voice was raspy and unsure.  
“Are you not feeling well?”  
Sherlock struggled to sit up a bit, then shook his head hesitantly.  
“Right. Well you just stay there, and I'll be right back.”

John retrieved his medical bag from its designated place in the kitchen and headed back upstairs to Sherlock, pausing only to grab a glass of water, figuring Sherlock would need to take some sort of pills, and at the very least, need to stay hydrated.  
He returned to find Sherlock in the same position as he had left him, slouched over the pillows like a giant rag doll, scowling.  
“Sit up,” John demanded. He stuck a thermometer in his mouth with instructions not to talk and waited until it beeped. “It's 39,” he frowned. “I'm gonna listen to your heart and lungs now, so scooch over.”  
Sherlock crawled across the bed a little bit until John figured there was enough room and sat down, rubbing his stethoscope between his hands to warm it up.  
It was only when John went to lift up Sherlock's shirt that he realized Sherlock was wearing one of his favourite jumpers. He barely held back a snicker as he managed to ask why on earth Sherlock was wearing it.  
“I think... I was... cold.” He seemed a little unsure.  
As John motioned for him to take a deep breath so he could listen to his lungs, Sherlock began coughing, and what started out as just a clearing of his throat turning into a minute long hacking which left him panting when it was over.  
John was alarmed.  
“Sherlock, how long have you have that cough?”  
“How long were you gone for?”  
John rolled his eyes. “Four days.”  
“Mmm... three days?”  
“And you didn't think to perhaps go to the doctor or anything?”  
“You're my doctor,” he replied simply, closing his eyes and collapsing back into the pillows, exhausted by the effort.  
“Right. Of course.”  
Peering intently at Sherlock, John noticed the tiniest tinges of blue in his lips. Grabbing his hands, despite Sherlock's minimal efforts to keep them from him, he examined his nails to find them decidedly lacking in the normal pinkish colour they should possess.  
“That's it,” he announced. “We're going to the hospital.”  
Sherlock's eyes widened, and he struggled to sit up in the bed, wheezing as he told John “I'm fine. Really. No hospital.”  
“Sherlock you've got pneumonia!”  
“Excellent deduction. But what are they supposed to do about it there what you can't do here?” He paused for a moment to cough again. “Hmm?” he finished, rather weakly.  
John closed his eyes and rubbed them with the heels of his hands for a moment, thinking.  
“Alright,” he said finally. “Here's what we're going to do. We're going to the hospital so you can get a chest x-ray and I can pick up some stuff, then we'll come back home.” He eyed Sherlock's hesitant look. “And if you decide to fight me on that one I'll call Mycroft. And you can bet his idea of treatment will be very different from mine. Got it?”  
Sherlock nodded pitifully, and it was decided.

Five hours later as they left A&E (which was pretty quick for a Sunday afternoon, although John suspected some part of 'not the British government' had a hand in that) Sherlock was still grumbling about being dragged to the hospital.  
John let him until they reached the flat, at which point he demanded Sherlock go to sleep right now on the couch.  
“What about the meds?” he asked innocently.  
“Intravenous,” John announced triumphantly. “So you just sit there and behave while I get a line, and then you will go to sleep, or I will drug you.” John grabbed his left arm and began scrutinizing the veins.  
“Other one,” Sherlock mumbled. Seeing John's confused look, he added “the veins in my right arm are better.”  
John nodded, understanding what Sherlock was saying. He got the line on the second try and busied himself with trying to set up the IV somewhere above the couch. He finally gave up and shoved a nail in the wall to hang the antibiotics on.  
Sherlock eyed the large bag that John had toted home from the hospital.  
“What's in there?”  
John followed his glance over to the bag, and by way of explaining, pulled it over and removed its contents.  
“Pulse ox machine,” he said, removing a contraption Sherlock was familiar with, although never this small before. He nodded, and John continued, not unpacking the bag, but shrugging the bag down around the final item, which was revealed to be a large cylinder, most likely of oxygen. Sherlock rolled his eyes exasperatedly.  
“Very unnecessary John,” he pointed out.  
John raised an eyebrow, as if he needed to remind him of his earlier threat.  
Sherlock huffed, but allowed John to stick the clip on his finger, and waited while John checked his email for the x-ray in between checking to see if it had calibrated.  
After what seemed like forever, John pushed his laptop towards Sherlock, a black and white image on the screen, and checked the display on the pulse ox machine.  
Sherlock examined the x-ray, which he assumed was of his chest, but besides seeing the vague outline of two lungs and a heart, provided no useful information to him. John's face, however, was an entirely different story.  
But whatever was there was a bit out of reach of Sherlock's mind right now, because it didn't make sense. Perhaps John was right about him needing to sleep. He sighed, which was unwise, as it lead to a coughing fit, and John looked over at him, concerned.  
“87 percent on room air, until you started coughing” he announced. “Then it went down to 79 percent.”  
He frowned.  
“Not good?” Sherlock offered.  
John almost smiled. “A bit not good, yeah.”  
Sherlock could tell John was worried, very worried in fact, but couldn't care enough to figure out why, or how to fix it. So he just closed his eyes and tried to sleep.  
It worked for all of about five seconds, until John began poking him, and when that didn't work, kneaded his sternum with his knuckles.  
“What?!” he gasped, sitting up, away from the pain.  
John looked angry. “You can't sleep right now!”  
Sherlock was confused. “But you just told me to...”  
“Yeah, well that was before I checked your sats. I can't let you go to sleep like this, you might never wake up,” John pointed out. Sherlock groaned. John quickly added “but it's okay, I have a solution.”  
Sherlock watched blearily as John did something, his eyes may have closed for a moment, and he missed what had happened, but he was trying really hard to keep them open.  
He was definitely awake after John attacked his sternum a second time, wanting to make sure he knew what was happening.  
John held up tubing.  
“I'm gonna put this on your face. Don't pull it off or I'll tape it to you.”  
Sherlock managed a slight nod, and John began situating the tubing around Sherlock's ears, prongs pointing into his nose awkwardly. He wanted to brush it off, but remembered John's warning, and besides, his arms felt much too heavy to move.  
So he lay there as John stood back satisfied and noted the numbers on the machine, nodding to Sherlock. He managed to stay awake while John fiddled with dials, and finally notified Sherlock “93 percent. Much better.” before covering him with a blanket, and he promptly fell asleep.

John sat in his chair, pecking out a blog post he would probably never publish, occasionally glancing at Sherlock to ensure he was still breathing and the pulse ox monitor to ensure his brilliant brain would be okay. He saved his blog post as a draft and closed the window, leaving only the image of Sherlock's chest x-ray open. Very, very obvious pneumonia. He was surprised Sherlock was still awake and lucid when he arrived home. Most people would have been entirely unconscious. _Of course_ , he reminded himself, _most people would have gone to get antibiotics when they first felt themselves getting sic_ k. Sherlock was hardly normal though, and John still couldn't decide if this was good or bad. Perhaps both.  
Sherlock stirred, and John peered over at him, noting the comforting rise of his chest, even if it was accompanied by wheezing. His heart jumped every time Sherlock coughed, afraid that he wouldn't be able to catch his breath. _Should have called Mycroft_. It was going to be a very long night. And day. And night. Week.

Sherlock awoke sometime in the dark, gasping for breath. _This must be what drowning feels like._ He had almost drowned before, but was blissfully unconscious for it, only waking up in the hospital with aching lungs and a crushed chest. That was preferable.  
He was going to drown and be awfully awake for the entire thing. Near the bottom of his list for preferable ways to die.  
“John...” he gasped, clawing at the tubes on his face, forgetting entirely what John had told him earlier about them, only hazily thinking that they must be part of the problem, rather than part of the solution.  
 _Where's John?_  
Sherlock could see him out of his dimming peripheral vision, dashing about, digging through the bag he had unpacked earlier. _What is he doing?_ He probably could have figured it out, but wisely decided to spend all his available energy on making his chest rise and fall.  
In. Out. Up. Down. Inhale. Exhale. Oxygen. Carbon dioxide.  
And John was there, shoving plastic on his face while simultaneously injecting something into his IV line. Sherlock struggled against his hand, irrationally thinking that John was trying to suffocate him. But as soon as John's other hand finished with the needle, it came over to prop Sherlock up against the couch cushions, then moving to smooth Sherlock's hair when he was finally upright. John whispered to him reassuringly.  
“Shh... it's okay Sherlock. Just breathe. The mask is going to help you breathe.”  
And as soon as Sherlock stopped panicking, he realized that John was indeed correct, that he could think about more than just forcing his diaphragm to contract, that it was okay, John was there to take care of him.  
He relaxed and nodded at John, who also visibly relaxed when Sherlock managed a muffled “kay”.  
And into darkness again.

John sat with Sherlock on the couch for a while after he passed out again, not really wanting to leave the world's only consulting detective alone. _He could have died_ , John realized. _He still could. What about his brain? No, no, it's fine, it was only for a short time. Could have been long enough. Saturations that low... SHUT UP. Whoa, temper. You are a doctor. 69 is a bad number._  
John willed himself to quit thinking.  
He glanced at Sherlock, half propped up against the pillows, half propped up against John's body. It seemed to be easier for him to breathe like this. Sighing quietly, John grappled for his phone, almost out of his reach, and texted Sarah, informing her of the situation. And perhaps begging for help. No, not begging, hinting.  
Sherlock has pneumonia. Won't be able to come in to work for at least three days. He's currently on IV antibiotics and oxygen and I'm holding him up so he can breathe. Perhaps you could bring over some more supplies before or after work. Thanks. -John  
John must have fallen asleep for a little while, because when he felt his phone vibrating on his lap, there was pink seeping in the windows and his foot had fallen asleep.  
You're at the flat?! -Sarah  
Yeah, you know how he is. -John  
But if he's that sick, he shouldn't be too hard to get to a hospital. -Sarah  
John's only response to that was a shrug, and that couldn't be communicated through texts, so he threw the phone across the room, frustrated.  
It was only as he watched it bounce, noting dully that perhaps Sherlock would like to research that when he was better, that he realized how stupid that was. Noting Sherlock's relatively deep breaths, he figured he was probably deep in sleep, and wouldn't awaken if John escaped out from under him.  
So John situated him carefully on the pillows, watching his sats the whole time, and once confident that he would not fall off the couch or stop breathing, crept across the living room to retrieve his phone. Of course, his sleeping foot protested this, and John cursed every squeak he made hobbling across the floor. He had one message from Sarah, which read:  
I'll come over with stolen supplies for you. Because I'm a fabulous person. -Sarah  
John snicked, and turned around to head back to the couch and was startled to see Sherlock's eyes open and watching him.  
They were still feverish, but bright above the oxygen mask. John supposed that was a good sign.

For some reason, John was sitting behind him. Sleeping. Sleeping behind him. Had he not gotten the message when Sherlock informed him we was married to his work? Sherlock lay there pondering that for a moment, recalling the events that had taken place in the darkness, noting that he did feel a bit better, although still exhausted and short of breath.  
Sherlock felt something vibrate, _John's phone_ , his brain provided, and he felt John startle. Sherlock assumed his sleeping state, not really wanting to speak to John just yet or have a thermometer shoved under his tongue. Sherlock listened as John sent and received a couple texts, probably with Sarah, and then as he threw his phone across the room.  
John began moving, and Sherlock did his best to act limp as if he was asleep while John repositioned him carefully on the pillows. But Sherlock couldn't help cracking open his eyes to watch John hobble across the living room, _foot asleep_ , and smile at the message. But apparently his brain was working a little slowly, because it was only as John turned to look at him that he remembered he was supposed to be sleeping. Drat.  
So Sherlock had to sit patiently as John asked him questions, stuck a thermometer under his tongue, rechecked his lungs, and replaced the mask with the tubing that Sherlock had apparently ripped off during the night. He recalled that. Vaguely.  
Frankly, Sherlock was surprised that the IV was still in, remembering how he panicked. John explained.  
“I taped it very, very, very well. Even if not for that circumstance, I figured you would probably pick at it a lot.”  
Sherlock was saved from the more probing questions by a ring of the doorbell, and Mrs Hudson's voice accompanied by another female one. _Definitely Sarah_.  
“I come bearing gifts,” she announced as Mrs Hudson let her into the apartment with only the briefest of knocks. _Good thing John wasn't still on the couch with me_.  
Sherlock frowned. Their ideas of gifts were very different. Sarah had brought medical supplies, where Sherlock would have preferred some new chemicals or perhaps a nice body part from the morgue.  
“Don't wan'em,” he announced, flinching at how raspy his voice sounded. He attempted to roll over to face the wall, but the numerous wires and tubes were getting caught, and not to mention John was right there, pulling him back. Sherlock attempted his best scowly face at him, but it didn't work.  
“Thank you Sarah,” he said pointedly, obviously trying to compensate for Sherlock's lack of appreciation.  
She shrugged, eyeing John's hand on Sherlock. “Need anything else?”  
“No,” John replied firmly, removing his hand from Sherlock's arm.  
“Let me know,” she called over her shoulder as she left with a quick nod to Mrs Hudson, who looked a little bit petrified.

“Oh dear. I didn't think he was this bad,” Mrs Hudson fretted.  
John's heart broke a little for her. But he knew as well as anyone that she would have had little chance of convincing him to see a doctor or take pills.  
“It's all right. You know how he is when he gets sick. Absolutely refuses to admit it.” He hesitated, seeing the look on her face, knowing she wasn't hearing a word he said. “Mrs Hudson?” he said loudly. “Perhaps you could make us some tea.” That seemed to register, because she blinked.  
“Alright, but just this once dear because Sherlock's sick and I can see you've been up all night with him. I'm not your housekeeper.”  
John smiled as she bustled off to the kitchen.  
“Of course.”

John sat in his chair sorting out the supplies Sarah had brought while sipping his tea. Mrs Hudson had muttered about 'the state of the place' and was now tutting about the kitchen, washing dishes, despite weak protests from Sherlock not to touch the bowls right next to the fridge.  
Sarah had obviously taken into careful consideration how difficult Sherlock was to deal with, and helpfully included multiple sedatives, but no pain medication.  
Most importantly she had brought an oxygen concentrator, which brought great relief to John. He had worried about how much was left in the tank, especially after he had cranked up the flow when Sherlock had woken gasping for breath in the middle of the night. That was awful.  
It had reminded John of men who had been shot in the chest in Afghanistan, not in the heart, but in the lung, and away from the makeshift hospital, he could not save. He could only watch as they literally suffocated on their own blood as it filled their chest cavity, leaving no room for air.  
At one point last night, Sherlock had even coughed up a little blood, nothing serious, likely just due to the insane amounts of hacking he had been doing, but seeing Sherlock with blood on his lips, struggling for breath had horrified John all over again. Except this was London and he would be damned if he ever lost someone ever again.  
So John was reassured when he hooked the tubing up to the concentrator, noting that the tank was less than a quarter full by now, and happily watched while Sherlock's sats were maintained in the low 90s. He didn't even mind Sherlock eyeing him as he smiled stupidly.  
He lost his smile as he pondered how to go about asking Sherlock.  
“Um, Sherlock. D'you have to go to the bathroom. Cause I can-”  
Sherlock butted in, rolling his eyes. “I am quite capable of doing that myself John.”  
His piercing glare lost a little something when he had to break it to cough for a moment, and wasn't quite the same afterwards.  
John nodded. “Right,” he said as he began to unhook the wires and tubing. “Up you go,” he grunted, lifting Sherlock up off the couch from underneath his arm, ignoring his pitiful protests. “I'm just helping you get there. I'm sure you can handle being in there on your own.” John waited outside the door of the bathroom until he heard a flush, and water running, running, running, for a suspiciously long time.  
“Sherlock,” he called, knocking. No response.  
The door had no functional lock, which John had learned the hard way, being in the shower when Sherlock had burst in, insisting that he needed something from under the sink and it was too important to wait, and besides, there was a shower curtain.  
He called out once more, and hearing no response, turned the knob, but met resistance when trying to open the door. _God don't tell me he barricaded it. Stupid, stupid, stupid_. He pushed harder, and realized what the resistance on the door was, when he heard a thump and saw Sherlock fall over through the crack in the door.  
Sherlock looked around blearily as John stepped over him to turn off the water, then knelt down next to him.  
“What the hell did you do?”  
“Fell... asleep?” he offered.  
John only rolled his eyes as he heaved Sherlock up off the floor and practically carried him back to the couch.  
Sherlock barely protested, instead lying back as John snapped the pulse ox back on Sherlock's finger anxiously.  
“79,” John noted grimly, weaving the oxygen tubing through Sherlock's wild hair, positioning it and slapping Sherlock's hands away as he tried to fidget with it.  
Once he was confident that Sherlock was satting well and not going to start pulling at things as soon as his back was turned, he popped his head in the kitchen where Mrs Hudson was still busy with the multiple 'experiments' that Sherlock had developed over the last four days.  
“Mrs Hudson? Can you just keep an eye on Sherlock for 10 minutes or so? Just make sure he doesn't pull anything off,” he added, noticing the sudden look of horror on their landlady's face. She nodded timidly, and John led her back to the living room.  
“Sherlock,” he announced. “I'm going to take a shower and change and Mrs Hudson is going to supervise to make sure you don't do anything stupid. Got it?”  
Sherlock only nodded miserably.  
John turned, smiling at Mrs Hudson reassuringly, and crawled up to his bedroom for clothes.  
He was exhausted. He briefly thought of skipping the shower and instead just napping on his bed until Mrs Hudson got concerned and called up to him, but remembered as soon as he saw it that Sherlock had been sleeping there just yesterday afternoon. The sheets and bedding would need to be changed first, and he just didn't have the energy for that.  
 _A nice hot shower would do wonders_ he assured himself as he trudged back down the stairs, peeking at Sherlock and Mrs Hudson as he headed to the bathroom.

Bored. Sherlock's brain was functioning only minimally and he was still bored. He eyed Mrs Hudson.  
“Mrs Hudson?” he asked pitifully, attempting to throw in a small cough, which worked to a certain extent, but led to a coughing spell that left him wheezing. “Can you get me my laptop?” he smiled at her weakly. She looked a bit dubious. “I'm bored,” he whined.  
Mrs Hudson seemed to give in a bit, because she eyed him suspiciously, but still asked him “And where is it dearie?”  
Sherlock frowned. That was an excellent question.  
“It's either in John's room or my room.”  
She crossed her arms, looking rather frightening for someone so small.  
“I could go look myself...” he ventured.  
Mrs Hudson fixed one of those piercing gazes on him. If he didn't know better, Sherlock would have suspected that's what killed her husband.  
“Or not...” he muttered, more to himself than Mrs Hudson, who had begun to head towards the stairs. So he just sat there on the couch, waiting, pondering whether he'd have enough time and energy to go to the kitchen and rescue an experiment.  
Not likely, he decided, which was a good thing, because as soon as he determined that, Mrs Hudson was back at the bottom of the stairs, remarkably sneaky for someone of her years. She was indeed holding Sherlock's laptop. If she wondered why it was in John's room, she wasn't saying. But her eyes twinkled.  
“Thank you,” he said quietly as she handed him the laptop. Mrs Hudson smiled.  
“Of course dear. Would you like a cuppa?”  
Sherlock nodded, wondering when his laptop had gotten so heavy. Perhaps it would crush him. The weight of the internet and the collective knowledge and stupidity it contained. He could very well drown in it if he didn't drown here on the couch first.  
And while he planned to publish a blog post, his body seemed to have other plans, and fell, fell, fell, asleep.

John was absolutely thrilled with himself for not falling asleep in the shower. And it did make him feel a bit better, even if not more awake. Perhaps Sherlock would sleep, and he could rest too.  
So he found it hilarious, perhaps too much so, lack of sleep can do that, that Sherlock was already passed out on the couch when he walked back into the living room, laptop sitting on his chest, open to his blog.  
John carefully removed it from atop Sherlock and placed it on the table next to the hot cuppa Mrs Hudson had just made.  
Except this cup wasn't made for Sherlock, it had milk in it. But Mrs Hudson knew how Sherlock took his - oh. It was for him. He plodded into the kitchen where she was cleaning again and gave her a hug, startling her a bit.  
“Doctor Watson!” she exclaimed, swatting him playfully on the head. “Don't sneak up on me like that.”  
John blushed. “Thank you for the cuppa. And watching Sherlock. And I assume, retrieving his laptop.”  
She only nodded knowingly and headed for the door.  
“I'll leave you alone now. If you do need me, I'll be downstairs or next door.”  
She paused at the door, then glanced between Sherlock and John and winked before leaving.  
John was too tired to even protest, instead, just plopped down in his chair and fell asleep.

 

 

 

Lestrade really didn't appreciate being woken up in the middle of the night by a mountain of texts from his least favourite consulting detective. Especially not the night after the terrible Monday he had just had.  
It was 4:12 am on Tuesday when he received the message that was the final straw. He had been able to mostly ignore them up until that point, with the buzzing only entering his dreams, causing very strange but not particularly unpleasant dreams about bees. But all that incessant vibrating caused his phone to slip off its nice little perch where the buzzing was softened, and was now lying on his hardwood floor.  
Not. Cool.  
So he was forced to get out of bed and actually get the phone. And Lestrade was not at all surprised to see that he had 21 new messages. And 20 of them were from Sherlock.  
They detailed things like:  
Bored. Come rescue me. -SH  
Dying. -SH  
Seriously. -SH  
A slow, painful death. -SH  
Can you come over? -SH  
Please? -SH  
I used the p word and everything. -SH  
So where are you? -SH  
And on, and on, and on.  
The single text that was not from Sherlock was from John.  
Sherlock has pneumonia. Bad case. If he texts you saying I'm killing him, please ignore it. Also, don't call about cases for at least a couple of days, preferably closer to a week. -John  
Well John, that would have been great to know before Sherlock woke him up.  
And there would be no getting back to sleep for Lestrade tonight. He checked the time on the last text from Sherlock. It was six minutes ago. Obviously. Lestrade shook his head. Much too early.  
As he was standing there debating what to do, he received another text from Sherlock.  
Seriously. Do come. Please. -SH  
And it was decided.

John was awoken at 4:52am by DI Lestrade, who was attempting to silently let himself into the flat, but failed due to the large pile of books he promptly knocked over in the dark. Not to mention the colourful swearing that he attempted to keep under his breath.  
John, instantly awake, reached over and flicked the light on.  
Greg stood there, looking more than a bit embarrassed. “Morning John,” he said sheepishly.  
John rubbed his eyes. “Hi. Umm... what are you doing here?”  
“Sherlock texted me.”  
John glanced over at Sherlock who was sitting up on the couch, practically bouncing with excitement.  
 _Just like a child_. John rolled his eyes.  
“Thanks for that Sherlock.” And to Lestrade, “I did inform you of this. I told you to stay away.”  
Lestrade shrugged.  
“He woke me up; what else was I supposed to do?”  
John glared at Sherlock, who only smiled gleefully.

Lestrade had planned a smooth entrance, with no need for lights and not waking the good doctor, who was probably still sleeping like any normal person.  
Of course all that was ruined the second he knocked over the stack of dusty old books.  
John flicked a light on and Lestrade was sure that his military training would kick in and he would be tackled or something of the sort. But John looked deadly tired which was probably the only reason Lestrade was still standing right now.  
He managed a little wave and greeted them, noticing for the first time Sherlock sitting on the couch.  
He did look dreadful. No wonder John had gotten no sleep.  
Lestrade had thought it impossible, but Sherlock now looked paler and thinner than ever before. The tubes and wires that John had skillfully woven into his body looked entirely out of place.  
But Lestrade hid his shock because the bloody fool looked absolutely thrilled to see him there. Typical.

Sherlock was slightly disappointed. Lestrade was supposed to have come to entertain him, not to chat with John in the kitchen. About him. And not every quietly.  
He did have his laptop at least. He had apparently fallen asleep with it on him last night, and John had ever so kindly removed it, probably thinking Sherlock would be squished by it.  
He rolled his eyes. Typical John behaviour.  
He felt a tickle in his throat and attempted to stifle it, knowing if he coughed he would no longer be able to hear Lestrade and John.  
He failed. Miserably.  
He struggled to sit up while hacking, still holding onto his laptop. Sherlock knew that John would be rushing over, and loathed the thought.  
And there he was, removing the laptop despite Sherlock's best efforts to hold on to it. He could see Lestrade out of the corner of his eye, looking very concerned. It was a familiar look, but one that he had never wanted to see again.  
Sherlock looked away.  
Minutes that seemed like hours later, Sherlock finally caught his breath. Exhausted from the effort, he slumped back down again.  
“Laptop,” he whispered to John, who only shook his head.  
“Sleep,” he said firmly.  
John and Lestrade headed to the kitchen, and Sherlock was too tired to protest. He closed his eyes and listened to the quiet but frantic conversation taking place in the kitchen.  
“Is he gonna be okay? I mean, he looks like he should be in a hospital.” Lestrade glanced over at him again. “What does he even have?”  
“Pneumonia. Bacterial,” Sherlock wheezed. “Obvious.”  
He sighed, exhausted, at their blank faces.  
“High fever. Chest pain. Blueish...ness. But mostly the antibiotics. You don't give antibiotics for viral pneumonia.” He rolled his eyes, and repeated. “Obvious. ”  
Sherlock heard Lestrade snickering before he dozed off.

“I don't understand it,” John told Lestrade quietly. “His fever should be coming down with the antibiotics.”  
Lestrade could only shrug. “What is it?”  
“40.4 degrees.”  
“Blimey.”  
John nodded, replacing the damp cloths that he had positioned on Sherlock's head and neck and under his arms.  
“If this doesn't start working soon we'll have to throw him in the tub.”  
Lestrade nodded grimly.  
“Anything I can do now?”  
“Pass me the thermometer?”  
Lestrade nodded, and passed it to him. He felt a bit like a nurse. He shook his head. No.

John slipped the thermometer out from under Sherlock's tongue, where he had been struggling to keep it for the last two minutes. Despite being almost unconscious, Sherlock apparently still objecting to things being in his mouth.  
Glancing at the display, he groaned.  
“What?” Lestrade asked.  
“It's 40.5,” he replied grimly. “Can you go fill up the tub? Lukewarm.”  
Lestrade nodded and headed off.  
“Well,” John said to Sherlock, knowing full well he wasn't listening. “You're not going to like this. But that's too bad.”  
He disconnected the IV from Sherlock's arm and hesitated before removing the nasal cannula from his face. He sat there for a moment, staring worriedly at the pulse ox monitor, seeing the numbers slowly slipping down.  
He heard the water in the bathroom turn off and Lestrade reappeared.  
“We're going to have to do this fast,” he said.  
Lestrade nodded, looking a tiny bit afraid.  
“You wanna grab his legs?”  
Lestrade obeyed, and together they managed to heave the fevered detective into the bathroom. Clothes and all, they attempted not so gracefully to get him in the tub without hurting him. The result was a mess. As soon as Sherlock was in the water he started making dreadful noises and flailing about.  
It probably felt like ice to him, John realized. After some of the longest moments of his life, worrying about his dropping sats and even possibly hurting himself in this state, John decided that was probably enough.  
“Okay,” he said to Lestrade over the grumbling. “Grab his feet.” And together they hauled the soaking wet detective out of the bath.  
“Probably would have been better if we had taken some of his clothes off first,” John admitted.  
Lestrade chuckled, and John was tempted to. Probably would have if Sherlock hadn't started coughing at that exact second. (What was it Mycroft said to him the first time they met? He does love to be dramatic...)  
They were hacking coughs, and as John grabbed Sherlock around the chest to heave him up to a sitting position, he could feel them racking his entire body.  
Lestrade looked concerned and John couldn't blame him.  
“Can you go grab the pulse ox machine and the oxygen tank and mask?”  
Lestrade nodded and hurried off. John sat with Sherlock, hoping, no, _praying_ , that it would stop.  
And it did. Just not in the way John was hoping for.  
“DAMMIT Sherlock!”  
Mycroft was right. Definitely a flair for the dramatic.  
Lestrade came rushing back in just in time to see John place Sherlock flat on his back, not breathing.  
“Put the clip on his finger. Hand me the mask and crank it up,” he ordered.  
Lestrade obeyed, face expressionless. John glared at the pulse ox monitor as if he could will it to work faster. Perhaps it worked. Either way, the number was extremely distressing.  
“Really Sherlock? 65? You would wouldn't you,” he muttered while snapping the mask on his face and kneading Sherlock's breastbone with his knuckles. If that didn't work....  
But it did work. And well. Sherlock gasped in pain, but gasping was good. It was breathing.  
John leaned shakily against the wall, watching the numbers slowly rising.

Lestrade was entirely unnerved. First the bathtub incident, which was bad enough on its own, not to mention that Sherlock just happened to stop breathing afterwards. It was like... punishment.  
And now Lestrade was in Sherlock's bedroom, feeling entirely out of place, supposed to be looking for clean clothes for Sherlock to wear.  
“Something comfortable.” John had said.  
Feeling so much like he was doing something wrong, Lestrade peered in Sherlock's closet and drawers. Did this man even own anything that wasn't tailored?  
Wrong, wrong, wrong.  
In the end, Lestrade blindly reached into drawers and pulled out articles of clothing, deciding he would give these to John and then suggest that perhaps John had something for Sherlock to wear.  
Yes, that would work.  
He returned to the bathroom where Sherlock still lay on the floor, sopping wet. John looked up as he entered.  
“You know Sherlock really doesn't own anything that would be considered comfortable,” he said, holding up the clothes he had grabbed awkwardly. “Perhaps you have something...” he trailed off.  
John nodded wearily.  
“I'll go check. Can you sit with him?” Lestrade nodded and slipped into the spot John vacated for him.  
Lestrade stared at the consulting detective. He was breathing again, thank god, and his chest was rising and falling rather quickly. Probably too quickly, but at least it was moving. Instead of the awful stillness that had been present when he had returned the first time, retrieving the supplies John had requested, moving even more quickly when he heard John swearing down the hall.  
It was okay now, he told himself. Or at least, it would be.  
Lestrade contemplated smoothing the detective's hair down as he had done so many times before, and had even gone so far as to hold his hand out before deciding against it. Sherlock's eyes snapped open and Lestrade could feel the brilliant blue piercing him, even clouded with fever.  
The door creaked open again.“Alright, these should fit,” John announced.  
Sherlock's eyes drifted closed before John could notice, and the moment was gone.

Lestrade had graciously offered to wait outside as John changed Sherlock, who was happy to agree. Sherlock would have been mortified. When it was all said and done, John hauled Sherlock back to the couch while Lestrade, wheeling the oxygen tanks and struggling with the pulse ox machine, trailed behind.  
“Fever's down to 39.2, so at least it was worth it.”  
Lestrade nodded in agreement.  
John set about making Sherlock comfortable again, removing the mask and replacing it with the nasal cannula, being forced to tape it because of Sherlock's flailing arms. It was when he attempted to attach the IV tubing that he hit a snag.  
Every time John grabbed his arm, Sherlock pulled it away, clawing and kicking and even baring his teeth. Which should have been expected, John supposed. Everything with Sherlock was as difficult as possible.  
In the end, Lestrade held his arm down while John reattached the tubing and stuck it down with about an entire roll of medical tape. He even considered splinting it and using some duct tape, but figured Sherlock would kill him.  
But even then, he was scared that Sherlock would rip it out. And that IV was his lifeline right now. He needed those antibiotics and fluids. So John made a decision.  
Turning to Lestrade, he grimly stated, “we're going to have to drug him.”

Torture. Must be. For sure. What else could it be?  
Drowning. And freezing. Definitely torture.  
So he tried to call out for John, warning him to stay away, it's not safe, call Lestrade for help. But the words got tangled coming out of his brain. So instead he just fought the hands that held him, until they were no longer holding him, and he was drifting...

Thankfully, Sarah had included the sedatives. Thankfully, Lestrade was there to help hold Sherlock down so John could inject him. Thankfully, the dose was high enough that it actually worked. Sherlock slept through the next day and a half, John happily checking on his silent patient every hour, noting the improvement in vital signs and general appearance.  
Near the evening of the second day of Sherlock being unconscious, John lightened the sedation, figuring Sherlock would be well enough to get up now and not completely risk his health. Probably.

Sherlock didn't even need to open his eyes. He knew.  
He vaguely recalled Lestrade and John. They were... holding him down. Then nothing. Oh. They drugged him. Took him a bit longer than usual to figure out because there was no tell tale prick.  
IV line. Clever.  
He shifted a little without opening his eyes. Stiff. Sore. Less sore than he was. IV still in place? Yup. Breathing? Better. Much better. Still hurts a bit. Figures that Sarah wouldn't have brought any pain killers. He'd need to talk to her about that.  
The realization came slowly, he blamed the drugs for that, but when it came it was just as painful and harsh as it would have been had it come instantly.  
He groaned.  
Two days.  
He didn't even want to think about it.  
Delete. Delete. Delete. (Are you sure you want to delete this memory permanently?)  
Yes. Yes he was.  
“John!” he croaked, then winced at his voice. John was there instantly, likely hovering over him for a while now, waiting for him to wake up. “Tea. Laptop.”  
John huffed about it, but obeyed.

John had to admit, it was good to see Sherlock awake and back to his old self, even if that self was downright irritating at the best of times.  
As soon as he had woken up, he demanded John make him tea and get his laptop. If that was the first thing that came to mind, John crossed his fingers and hope that the slightly more sensitive issue of bodily functions would be forgotten. So he practically threw the laptop at Sherlock was went off to the kitchen to make tea for them both. And when he handed it to Sherlock, who was rapidly surfing the net, checking his email, and writing a post for his blog all at top speed, he barely acknowledged him.  
Just like normal.

A few days later, John was sitting in the kitchen, drinking tea and reading the newspaper when Sherlock appeared.  
“I'm entirely recovered now John,” he declared. John stared at him. “Really!” Sherlock insisted.  
John managed to hide his snort, but indulged the detective anyway.  
“Alright then,” he said, straightening up to face him. “Go run up and down the stairs. Twice. Then we'll see.”  
Sherlock scowled.  
“Really John? Physical labour? You know I don't partake in that even under the best of circumstances unless absolutely necessary.”  
“No more cases until you do!” John called after him as he paced wide laps throughout the flat.  
Sherlock paced a few more times, likely pondering this, before stalking off down the hall towards his bedroom, muttering nonsense.  
John noted satisfactorily as he passed that he was slightly out of breath.  
 _Another couple of days or so,_ he commented to himself. _Then it'll be back to me lagging after him during chases_.  
Just the way it was meant to be.


End file.
